Jay Bird
by Diane Long
Summary: In 1794, after the Jay's Treaty is signed in London, England invites America to his home for dinner.  This is their first private time together since the revolution.  Their past, both good and bad, sets the stage for an awkward and poignant evening.
1. Chapter 1

**Jay Bird**

An APH US/UK story by Diane Long

Damp and cold and dirty and congested.

That was America's impression of London as he peered out of the grimy windows of his carriage. Even the torrents of rain didn't seem to help clean the glass. Outside, the gutters ran over-full, flooding into the street carrying detritus and filth. Mud splashed everywhere, kicked up by humans and horses alike.

Alfred glanced down at his fingers, encased with pristine white gloves and clenched into fists. How in the world would they stay that way when he exited the carriage? He shouldn't have dressed up – his normal work clothes would better stand up to these conditions. He winced, thinking of the cost of the fine linen shirtwaist and woolen waistcoat, jacket, and breeches. The silk stockings and kid leather shoes would be destroyed the moment he stepped out into that soup. What a waste, and such a shame given the state of his economy.

England had never shared just how dismal London could be in November. Not that he had ever shared much about the world beyond Colonial America's borders. Though he had endlessly complained about Virginia's wet, cold winters, and he had sworn that London fared much better.

Alfred snorted. So England had lied – so surprising.

He cradled his head in his gloved hand. No, that wasn't helpful. The Treaty of London was signed. Jay's Treaty was official. After 20 years, he and England were... were... what? Friends was way too strong a term. Allies...no. Perhaps business partners was better? Yes, perhaps so.

He sighed, not sure how to feel about it all. It was great that the last of the Lobsters were finally leaving the North Western Territories and that his merchants were finally being reimbursed by England. Getting a clear and agreed upon border with Canada would be good for all involved. It was just that getting to these agreements had been so sterile. He had hoped that maybe enough time had passed that he and England could try and rebuild something resembling a friendly relationship. That they could just talk a little. They had once been close. Despite the war, and harsh words from both of them, Alfred had missed him.

During the recent negotiations England had been frostily polite. Always entering a fraction after the talks had formally begun and exiting just before the meetings concluded. America hadn't gotten in a signal casual or personal word. At all. He was lucky to catch the older nation's frozen green eyes, which had looked through him, never once focusing on his face or betraying a single thought.

These negotiations were far less acrimonious than the treaty of Paris had been, but it hadn't felt any better. In fact it had felt worse, given how calm and dead the whole affair had been. Then, England had actually tried to punch him, now he just stared and stared with those empty eyes.

So what was Alfred to make of an unexpected invitation to come to England's home for dinner the night before he sailed for home? He could see the letter in his mind's eye, full of perfect, formal language and oh-so proper phrases. It had informed him of the tradition of nations offering hospitality to each other during momentous occasions, and would he do the Empire the honor of dining with him at his home?

Even as his eyebrow twitched at the word 'empire', Alfred's chest puffed out under his greatcoat. England thought of him as a NATION. A peer, not a subordinate. That alone was reason to accept. To acknowledge the acknowledgment. That, and the fact he had never been to England's home before, despite uncounted years of desperate curiosity. It was located in Mayfair, England's letter had said. Not knowing so much about London, that didn't mean anything to Alfred, though he suspected England, the Empire, was bragging.

The carriage rattled along and swerved sharply to the right, rolling up a sharp incline where more regular cobbles made the ride instantly smoother. The homes were larger here and made of elegant grey blocks, with lanterns hanging above their gates and doors. They were all terraced like the common homes Alfred had seen earlier, still sharing walls despite their grander scale and materials.

It was raining just as hard here, but it didn't seem as filthy. While the other streets were filled with people milling about in the muck, this street was empty. This must be Mayfair.

He leaned back against the upholstery and took a steadying breath. They were almost there and he was going to attempt to have a casual conversation with England. How would that go? Would they talk or would England just stare coldly at him for the entire visit? If England spoke, what would he say? Would it be kind words or polite insults?

If it was the latter, Alfred hoped he could keep his temper, something he was having increasing problems with lately.

But it was important – even if England baited him, Alfred knew it would be harmful for him to lose control. How could he expect England to treat him with respect if he didn't earn it? This was an important chance at reconciliation and he couldn't blow it by acting like a kid.

He pressed his hands against the glass of the carriage's window and peered at the homes he rolled past. Some of them even had little front gardens. He bet that England's place was covered in rose bushes. After all, he had planted them everywhere they would fit around their first home in Virginia.

America cracked his knuckles and shifted around on the seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs at the knee. What would they talk about? Not tea, or coffee, or France, or colonies, or politics, or religion, or family, or food... that left...?

Rubbing at his stomach, America took another deep breath as the carriage pulled up to a handsome townhouse that was even bigger than its neighbors. Several extravagant lanterns softly illuminated nooks of a spacious front yard covered, as expected, in rose bushes, orange rose hips showing where the blooms had been in the summer.

This was it. He was here.

The large wooden double doors at the home's front burst open and spilled out golden light and a mob of female servants armed with umbrellas. Their black skirts and white aprons blew about in the wind revealing white petticoats and black wool stockings as they formed a line from the front door to the door of the carriage. Umbrellas were popped open and held up and forward at an angle, creating a covered walkway for the carriage's passenger. They all stood, faces down and averted, getting soaked in the icy downpour.

Alfred frowned. He didn't want anyone to get wet, or maybe sick, on his account.

A long roll of carpet was unfurled down the walk, clearly expensive, and just as clearly soon to be ruined. Empire, indeed. Alfred looked down at his shoes. At least they would be spared.

The carriage door rattled open and Alfred sprung to his feet and hurried down the steps. The faster he moved, the faster they could all get inside. He hurried beneath the row of umbrellas whispering a litany of 'thank you's' and 'sorry's' to each person as he passed

He dashed through the front door, the heels of his shoes clicking on the marble of the foyer floor. He half turned to check on the status of the servants behind him, frowning as the door swung shut on them.

He was about to reach to open the door when a stoic butler cleared his throat and reached for his greatcoat, hat, and scarf. Alfred made an effort to relax his limbs and allow his outerwear to be removed and bundled away. He had his own servants now, of course, but was still getting comfortable with relative strangers either dressing him or removing his clothing. This fellow seemed alright with his role, if not very friendly.

Still the girls had not come in.

"I beg your pardon, but may the young ladies come in now?" Alfred asked, his words revealing the remains of his soft British accent. He made an effort to use extra formal language, just like he had been practicing.

The butler looked impassive. "They have come in through the scullery, Sir."

"Oh. I see," Alfred laughed nervously. "If they came in the front, they would just have more work to do mopping up the foyer, I guess." The formal language was already receding from him without his notice.

The butler just stared at him, expressionless. He could have been a part of the décor for all of the life he showed. The dark grays of his livery were a perfect counterpoint to the mauve tones of the entryway's wallpaper and upholstered chairs.

Alfred flushed and shuffled his feet. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Alfred."

More staring. The flickering light of the oil lamps served to better hide any sort of expression on the butler's face.

"And you, Sir, your name is?" Alfred tried again, smoothing his jacket's tails.

"Thomas, you may go now," drawled a cool voice. "That is all."

Alfred's head snapped back and he saw England standing regally at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed in the same style as Alfred but in much richer materials. The knee length britches were made from a dense silk of forrest green, his waist coat and jacket a heavily brocaded golden satin that glimmered in the lamp light. The collar of his snowy cotton shirt was tied off with a complex cravat fixed in place with a gold and pearl broach.

Alfred clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. He might be in cotton and wools but the indigo blue dyes of his britches and waist coat and black dye of his jacket were expertly done, if sober. His shirt was a creamy natural linen and his own cravat was a simple, but elegant knot. His hair was neatly clubbed in the back with a red ribbon. He was refined, but not ostentatious. He met those cold green eyes with his earnest blue ones and smiled.

England met his gaze. His expression, framed by controlled shocks of pale blond hair, was serene and patient, communicating he could wait.

Alfred's smile tightened. He could wait too. Only a colony was obligated to give the first greeting to his Lord. That was not America... not any more and never would be again

The oil lamps wavered in a slight draft as the silence grew heavier.

Alfred's lips pursed a little and a muscle in England's jaw twitched.

Deeper in the house a clock chimed the hour, the hushed footsteps of the servants hurried along, and somewhere a door slammed.

"People don't smile much around here, do they?" Alfred inquired, rather than greeting.

England's eyes ran over Alfred. "You look like a Quaker," he also didn't greet.

Alfred's smile stayed steady through sheer will power. "Does that makes you a Macaroni?"

"Oh dear," England said delicately. "I suppose you didn't know that song was meant to be unkind."

Alfred's expression became feral as he detected the polite derision. "We liked it." He mimed sticking a feather in an imaginary hat. "Yankee. Doodle. Dandy." Each word was deliberate, just shy of being three discrete challenges.

England ignored the jibe. "Come here and let me look at you." He imperiously waved Alfred towards him with a white gloved hand.

Choosing to comply, America strode forward until he was close by and looking up at England, noting that the nation was standing three steps up from the bottom of the staircase to achieve the height.

"You look well. Still growing I see," England conceded, his eyes thawing a little.

A cautious sort of happiness leapt up in Alfred's chest. "Thank you." He gazed up at that familiar and once loved face. "You remain just as I recall."

England clucked his tongue. "Just listen to those R's. I worked so hard to break you of that."

"I know." Alfred ducked his head. "But they just feel correct as they are. I think they are meant to be there for me."

England's brows pinched together. "Regrettable. You sound like a farmer."

Alfred shrugged, looking boyish for a moment. "I am a farmer. You know that."

England nodded. "Too true. I half expected to you to show up in home spun and muddy boots. I am pleased, however, with your choice of attire."

America grinned full out. England still knew him so well. That was exactly what this weather demanded any practical person to wear – but he had known better and bowed to convention. England had noticed and approved. That really shouldn't make him as happy as it did.

As he was trying to find words to complement England on his ostentatious costume without sounding moronic or offensive, Thomas appeared silently at an open door further down the hall. "Dinner is served."

"Thank you, Thomas!" Alfred beamed in relief, pivoting neatly on the ball of his foot. He moved quickly towards the butler while his mind churned with trying to come up with topics for dinner conversation.

England made a displeased sound as he came down the remaining stairs and followed Alfred into the dining room, and Alfred wondered what he had already done wrong.

**Notes:**

By 1794, the industrial revolution was in full swing in England. It was getting quite polluted and crowded.

**Jays Treaty-** finalized some outrageous loose ends left by the revolutionary war. Also lead to a short period of reconciliation between America and England.

**Mayfair-** a fashionable residential area in central London during this time period.

**Yankee Doodle-** this song has a neat history. The British sang it to make fun of just how stupid and home spun the rebels were. A Macaroni was a term for someone who was a foppish dandy in Europe, most of them wore very outlandish and extravagant styles. In this song, the British meant that the colonists were so fashion backward that they thought sticking a feather in their hats was enough to be stylish. Doodle is derived from a word that means simpleton. Fun huh?

I need to acknowledge Otoshigo's Jay's Treaty comic as the source of my inspiration. I didn't remember anything about this treaty before that comic and found the whole concept very intriguing. I live in the US in the state of Ohio, which was part of the North West territory and it is hard to imagine there were still Red Coats running around here and impressing American citizens into the British army some 20 years after the treaty of Paris.

I also want to acknowledge that Stardropdream's Lying in That Sound Tonight has been giving me fits, even though I love it. It is a story of reconciliation too, and I live in fear of accidentally copying anything from it! I've been trying not to read it until I get this fic done, but am just too weak. If you see something sneaky - please tell me.

But speaking of reconciliations, my head cannon for this is different I think. This is only 20 years since Arthur and Alfred have parted and both their wounds and their prior good times are not so far behind and both weigh on our boys. I see Alfred as a bit more timid since he has not yet become a world power and is still figuring out his way. I think that makes him a little more polite and careful, and why he was the first to break down and speak in this chapter. As you will see later, he still has his flavors of brashness and the ability to be a jerk. He just isn't over the top yet. :-)


	2. Chapter 2

"This way, Sir." The butler guided Alfred through the dining room door and to the foot of a long and narrow table where he pulled out a fragile looking cherry chair for him. It barely seemed able to support the weight of its own carved curlicues.

Alfred cooperated somewhat awkwardly and allowed his seat to be pushed in. As England was seated at the head of the table, America took in the spotless white table cloth, translucent china, crystal goblets and the many silver utensils arranged around his place setting. Five dozen gorgeous, out-of-season, red and white roses filled a silver vase in the center of of the table, making it so that either diner had to lean a bit to the side to see the other. Maybe they would help hide it if he broke anything, it was all so fragile and his hands were so big and hard to control.

Alfred shifted carefully, testing to see if the confection of a chair would hold his weight – he was used to more sturdy oak furniture and the last thing he wanted at this moment was to have the chair shatter. It seemed like it would hold. He reached for his cloth napkin and unfurled it with a snap of his wrist and started to tuck it into his collar. However, he noticed beyond the screen of roses that England had instead spread his napkin over his lap.

With a wince, Alfred quickly followed suit, hoping his gaffe had not been noticed.

Two of the girls from earlier came in from the kitchen through a swinging door, each bearing a bowl of soup. As the younger of the two placed one silently in front of Alfred, he noticed that her dark curls were still damp from the rain. "Thank you, miss."

She blushed sweetly and hurried out of the room behind what could have been her twin.

America looked down at the pale, green cream in his bowl and slid a covert eye to England before he picked up his soup spoon and very carefully spooned a mouthful away from himself, making sure not to scrape. He was doing his best to remember his manners. He took a careful sip. "Asparagus!"

England patted his mouth with his napkin and returned it to his lap. "I take it you approve?"

America accidentally scraped his spoon across the bottom of the bowl in his excitement as he ladled up another spoonful. "Yes! I haven't had this for a long time. It's a real treat!" He made a small happy sound and a little slurp with his next bite.

"Very good," England commented, continuing to eat his soup silently.

"You remembered?" America asked softly, making every effort to not scrape this time. A lifetime ago, England had often brought him Asparagus as a treat. After he hand been coaxed into trying it, he had become an immediate devotee.

"Not intentionally." England was completely hidden behind the roses.

"Ah." Alfred smiled to himself as he quietly finished his soup. England might not admit to it, but it was a nice gesture. He peered into his bowl and wondered if he could get one more bite without making too much noise. Sadly giving it up as a lost cause, he carefully put down his soupspoon.

England was gazing at the soft folds of the roses, his face unreadable. He leaned over a little and his eyes flicked over to Alfred's. "How were your harvests this fall?"

Alfred wiped his hands on the napkin on his lap. How to answer that without rubbing England's face in the resources he no longer controlled? "Bountiful. The people will have a good winter, I think. And yours?"

"Sufficient. So many people are leaving the country to come work in the factories – there are less people to work the land. However, so far it hasn't been a problem." England's broach glinted in the fluid lamp light as he angled to better see America.

"Well, if it becomes a problem, talk to me. I think we have a decent surplus." Alfred meant it as a friendly offer of aid and a possible strengthening of their new business relationship, but didn't miss the souring of England's expression. "Though I doubt you will need it," he added quickly.

"If I do, one of the colonies can support me... without charging me for the favor," England said cooly.

Alfred's nostrils flared at England's casual mention of just taking from his colonies, of robbing them. He breathed slowly, trying to calm the rushing he could hear in his ears. "No doubt," he bit out, hiding behind the flowers in case any of his anger was showing.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them as Alfred counted the peonies painted around the gilded rim of his soup bowl. Clearly no topic was safe – they were all potential hazards, and even he could sense the approaching collapse of civility. He risked a glance at England through the roses and could only make out a tightly clenched jaw.

More servants bustled in and removed the soup bowls while others came in with platters of venison and began serving it to the nations.

"This smells great! Thank you!" Alfred winked at the young man serving him, relieved for any distraction from his current plight.

England cleared his throat. "You do realize that you are making the servants uncomfortable by speaking to them as you are."

"I am?" Alfred asked suspiciously, watching the staff file out. It sounded more like an insult than a helpful hint.

"Yes. In Britain, everyone has their place and is happy for it," England explained, his green eyes glinting in the unsteady lamplight.

"I was just being polite," America defended. He knew what England was implying about him and would not dignify it with a comment.

"No, you were being friendly, talking to them as equals, and the servants do not expect or want that from you." England's voice hovered on the edge of civil, ready to tip into something unpleasant at any moment.

"But... that sounds so..." Classist. Exploitive. America didn't want to come out and say these things, not when he was trying to get through the evening without a fight.

"Snobbish?" England asked wryly. He leaned forward and peered around the roses. "Trust me, the servants are the worst of snobs. They do not respect you because of the weakness you are showing them."

"Kindness isn't weakness," America said stoutly, leaning forward as well. "I have always appreciated the kindness you have showed me."

"And that served me so well." England fell back behind the bounty of roses. "I've since learned my lesson," he said bitterly, all pretense of politeness gone.

America swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and focused on using his utensils to slice up his venison into small pieces. His hopes for the evening were dashed. It was stupid to think that this would be anything but painful. He kept his eyes down and pushed the meat around on his plate.

"Would you care for some bread?" England asked from down at his end of the table, his voice back to the frosty politeness of their political negotiations earlier in the week.

America focused on his plate and spoke quietly. "No, thank you." His disappointment showed in his voice, despite his desire to hide it. Unable to eat, he carefully laid his knife and fork down.

"Is the venison not to your liking?" England queried lifelessly. "That came from the Royal Park, you know."

America didn't answer. He wasn't cold like England. He couldn't just pretend his heart wasn't breaking. He folded his hands in his lap and regarded the little bits of meat on his plate. He couldn't play this heartless game. Would it cause an international incident if he were to just get up and leave? He wasn't sure where his conveyance was. Without it, he would have a devil of a time finding his way back to his lodgings. That, and in out in this damned rain, he would ruin the beautiful clothing his Patriots had sacrificed to purchase for him.

His Patriots. The thought helped him rally. He was here for them, not for England. Any hopes that he and England could rebuild a friendship were foolish, and he shouldn't be sidetracked by them. At the very least he could use this time to show England that he was no fool and no coward. He would not be bullied. Right. If he couldn't do this for himself, he would do it for his people.

Alfred moved to the side and raised wry eyes to his former empire. "Pas devant les domestiques?"1 he asked in fluent French, showing off how easily it flowed from his tongue.

As expected, England's calm, king-of-the-realm mask cracked and fell at the Gallic words. His great brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "I beg your pardon? Did I just hear the croaking of a frog?"

"That's what France always says, I guess he agrees with you." America drummed his fingertips on the table top. "Looks like that is not working out so well for him at the moment. You might want to reconsider that, as you try to hold onto your Empire."

Red was creeping up England's neck, jaw and was painting his ears. His words flew from him in a shout. "You wouldn't dare to compare my situation to the debacle going on across the channel, you upstart!" He pushed his chair back in an angry burst. "I should have known your appallingly good manners were too good to be true."

America sniffed at his wine glass, working hard not to show that England's loss of composure was sending adrenaline coursing through his system. "I wonder what your Bastille will be? The Tower?"

"You self righteous little prig!" England frothed. "I invite you into my home, offer an olive branch, and what do you do? You snap it in half over your knee!"

A spark of anger penetrated America's false calm. He hadn't struck the first blow tonight. "Perhaps that little problem with gin you are having is the first sign of discontent?" America circled his finger over the rim of his wine glass. "Your people are so happy with their social status that they are drowning themselves in liquor. Well done, old boy." He pulled in his R's to sound absolutely posh, just to be annoying.

England's mouth worked in wordless rage, his entire face was red. He gained his feet and shoved a shaking finger towards America. "Do not mock me. I don't need to hear anything from a nation that has existed for only two decades. You have no idea what you are talking about."

"At least I am willing to try a different way!" America snapped, his dialect his own again. "You stubborn old fool!"

"Oh and what a grand success it has been." England tugged on his waist coat sharply. "The Articles of Confederation were just brilliant weren't they? Each colony -oh do pardon me- 'state' gets one vote each for the entire federal government. Pure anarchy, I've been told. Each state parading around like a nation!" He cocked an eyebrow. "Dear God, don't tell me there are 13 more of YOU to deal with."

Alfred pulled at his short pony tail in sheer aggravation. Not only was England openly mocking him him now, he had just scored a valid point. "Shut up! We realized that problem and fixed it! The Virginia plan was put into place and each state gets proportional representation." He stood as well and leaned over the table to glare over the flowers at England. "All of my people have a voice. No matter what their status in life they get a say in their government."

"All?" England sneered. "Male European land holders, you mean. As of old, you still speak before you think."

Alfred frowned. Damn. Another point. "Well... at least we are allowed to talk to everyone no matter what their status."

Arthur ignored the weak defense. "Let's not forget the slaves, whom apparently do not count as a full person in your so-called proportional representation in your legislative bodies," England cut in viciously.

Alfred's face flushed deep red in shame. "Damn it! I know its not perfect yet. These things take time, and I can't move faster than the the minds of the men whom I represent. " Deeply embarrassed, he sank down on his chair and held his head in a gloved hand wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

A thick silence fell between the two, punctuated only by the slowing of their breathing. America could just feel England's eyes boring into him. "Don't look at me like that," he grumbled, just imaging the sneer on England's face. "You're not perfect either. Neither of us treat our women very well at all. "

"So we don't." England's voice was calmer, a little wistful. "Look here, America... I... I find myself forgetting how young you really are."

That certainly wasn't the impression Alfred had been hoping to leave with England. But what could he really say to that? His mouth had run away with him again and he had spoken his hopes and dreams instead of his reality. He bit his lip and held his breath. What a disaster. What a ridiculous, stupid, failure.

"Let's not fight," England cajoled, the tone taking Alfred back a century. "Tonight was not meant for fighting. We both forgot our tempers."

To his deep mortification, Alfred felt frustrated tears prick at the corner of his eyes. There was no way he would cry right now. He concentrated on his heart beat and breathing, willing himself to calm the hell down.

"Are you pouting?" England's voice asked with amused surprise.

Alfred jumped, blinking his eyes rapidly. "No!" He sat up from his slump, cheeks so hot he was sure to ignite at any moment. "I am not!" He met England's eyes and bowed his back so his chest looked extra broad.

For the first time that evening, the beginnings of a smile twitched up the corners of England's mouth. "Your optimism remains as strong as ever," he noted, stepping away from the table. "You are still a very young nation, and it will take time for you to achieve your goals."

"I'm not a kid," America grumbled, picking his napkin off the floor where it had fallen when he had taken his feet. He folded it and placed it on the table. "I am over 200 years old."

"Then as men, let us retire to the library for some brandy," England offered.

Alfred nodded and rose. England wasn't apologizing, but he was trying to be nicer. He could try harder as well. "I could use a drink myself."

Notes (Most info is from wikipedia):

**1.** French, "Not in front of the servants." Those familiar with Amelia Peabody should know this phrase.

**Asparagus-** Is native to Europe, including England. Fell out of favor in Medieval times, but was getting popular again by the 16th century. Arthur liked it an was using it as a treat to trick America into eating his veggies!

**Venison-** To serve this in England during this time period meant showing off. It either meant you were wealthy enough to own enough green space to allow for legal hunting or that you had an important patron who did. Of course, this is lost on America who has forests full of deer for the taking.

**French Revolution- **This is in full swing at the time of our story.

**Gin-** In this time period gin, because it was so cheap, was widely abused by the lower classes to self medicate for pain and misery. By 1740 six times more gin was being produced than beer in England. Various taxes and restrictive acts were passed to make it less affordable in an effort to stem problems with public drunkenness.

**The American R Sound-** In phonology, a dialect with a pronounced R sound, particularly at the end of words is called 'rhotic'. During the 17th century, British and Colonial American english were both rhotic. (Scotch and Irish english is extremely rhotic even now). Over time, prestigious British accents became non-rhotic, meaning a lessened emphasis on the R sound. This change was actively happening during the 18th century. This is why east coast American accents to this day are more non-rhotic than the rest of the United States (think Boston) given their more heavy exposure to British english speakers. In our story, since Alfred has mostly lived in the east, this means his R's aren't really so bad, but from England's POV they sound positively uncultured.

**Early American Models of Government-** It was really jacked up prior to the Virginia Plan which introduced the legislative model of the US which exists today.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred followed England out of the dining room and up the dimly lit stairs to a smaller than expected room whose walls were covered with books. There was just enough room for a cozy seating nook with two burgundy leather couches facing each other in front of a hot coal fire.

Whereas the first floor communicated style and power, this room felt almost rustic. The deep green carpets and throw pillows working with simple oak furniture to create the atmosphere of a small cottage. Alfred immediately felt more at home.

England motioned that Alfred should take a seat while he gathered a decanter and two small cut-glass tumblers from a shelf and set them on a low table between the couches.

America sat easily on a couch, this time completely confident it would bear him, while England poured a hearty slug of amber coloured liquid into each glass. England handed a glass to Alfred and sat down on the other couch, lounging comfortably into the corner. Alfred noticed that England's body language was more at ease in his inner sanctum than it had been downstairs in the more public, showy areas of his home.

"Cheers," England stated holding up his glass.

"Cheers," Alfred echoed, tapping the rim of his glass against England's, thankful for the gesture of goodwill and the change of atmosphere. He drank in a small mouthful of the liquor and rolled it around his mouth. "Tasty."

"Mmmm," England agreed, draining his glass. "Just the thing in the evening." He poured himself some more. He leaned forward to top off America's glass, but pulled back as it was still full. "Well. What is your spirit of choice these days?" He set the decanter back on the table.

America swished his brandy around a bit, admiring the way the cut glass twinkled in the firelight. He knew that England's renewed effort to have a civil conversation was his way of apologizing for his outbursts as well as regaining face. England prided himself on his maturity and aplomb, after all. "Whiskey," Alfred answered distractedly, thinking of other memorable times he had made England loose his temper. As soon as the word left his mouth he frowned, knowing he had left himself open for more jabs if England chose to take them.

To his credit, England didn't push the topic. "I fancy a good Irish whiskey from time to time myself," was all he said, finishing his drink and fixing himself another.

Alfred felt his shoulders relax and he crossed his legs, propping an ankle on a knee. "I shouldn't have mentioned the gin, not with my own issues," he offered in his own roundabout apology. He took another small sip.

England effortlessly batted the conversational ball back at him. "They are calling it the 'Whiskey Rebellion', correct?" He only seemed politely interested.

Alfred chuckled morosely. "They are. It's been going on for a few years, and just this last July it all came to a head." He clucked his tongue. "It was a good thing in the end though."

"Do tell?" England stretched his toes towards the warmth of the fire. He took a slow sip of brandy, this time not gulping it down and looked again at Alfred's glass. "Are you ever going to finish that drink?"

Alfred placed a hand over the top of his tumbler. "I'm good, thanks." He didn't drink very often and between the brandy and the wine at dinner he was already feeling a pleasant tingle.

England shrugged. "Suit yourself. As you were saying? The Whiskey Rebellion was a good thing?"

Alfred leaned forward, excitement lighting up his face. "Well, see, it was a test. Pennsylvania didn't like the new Federal government saying they had to pay taxes. The fact that the Federal militia was able to enforce it strengthened my government more than anything else could have done."

England pinched his nose and closed his eyes. "That sounds terribly familiar," he said dryly. His eyes cracked open and bestowed an ironic expression upon America as he sipped his brandy.

Alfred laughed nervously, sounding decades younger for a pained moment. "Er, I suppose so. I was just...you know..."

A bored hand waved away the concerns. "No harm done. What else have you learned?"

Alfred pulled at the finger tips of his glove. "I know we were pretty upset over your taxes...but...well, building a government that can't levy a tax was pretty stupid. Do you how much debt I am in?" Alfred gazed into the glowing coals so he didn't have to look at England while admitting such a monumental mistake.

"At least you figured it out in time to fix it. Governments need money to run. Even Anarchy isn't completely free." England snorted as if remembering some of own debacles. "That lesson comes to all."

"All of my tax paying states are represented in my legislative system. I am hoping that makes it easier for the people to take," America said carefully with a sheepish cough. He didn't want to come off as if he were trying to get a dig in about his past grievances as a colony.

"Represented to their satisfaction?" It sounded like England already knew the answer.

Alfred groaned. "Can you believe the answer is no? All they do is debate about proportional representation. Its either too much or too little, depending on who you ask!" He scuffed his shoes along the fringe of a rug. "They worry more about their neighbors than their own affairs!"

"Listen to you talk." There was pride in England's voice. "You are coming into your own." Eyes shining he leaned forward and meet America's gaze.

Alfred rubbed at his nose. "I'm making all kinds of mistakes." He lowered his eyes. "You are being too kind."

"I don't know, I've been working on parliament since the 13th century. You are making astonishing progress." England leaned back and tilted his head against the back of the couch. "Indeed. It's quite remarkable."

Alfred's throat closed up. England sounded proud of him. He swallowed thickly. He hadn't realized how much he still wanted England's approval. He felt warmth on his cheeks and compensated by throwing back the rest of his brandy and setting his glass on the table between them.

Even England looked affected – a bemused smile on his lips as he leaned over the table and refilled Alfred's glass.

The silence carried on, full of things they couldn't find the words for, as they both gazed into the fireplace.

"Do you still live in the house I built for you?" England asked after a moment.

"No, you know it burned down in the war," Alfred's words were almost a whisper. He had always thought England had done it as a sort of emotional warfare. It had been quite effective.

"It wasn't me," England corrected the unsaid accusation, sorrow etching his words. "I didn't know. I regret to hear of its fall." He turned to face Alfred. "Truly."

"Oh." Alfred toyed with his cravat. That home was the symbol of everything good about their shared past and the concept of England destroying it had broken something in him. Hearing this wasn't true meant everything. "We had a nice life there." He glanced briefly at England, hardly able to take the tenderness in his expression.

"So we did." England stared in to the middle distance for a bit and shifted to a safer topic. "You now live where?"

Alfred decided against picking up his now full tumbler. His emotions were already to swinging to extremes without further assistance from spirits. "I live in Philly... with the President. We are renting a house while the Federal City is being built in the District of Columbia." Alfred pushed the glass away from him on the table. "You know, I really miss our old house. It was private. Hidden in the middle of the woods. A man could be on his own; do as he pleased; hear himself think."

"I take it your residence in Philadelphia is not so?" England hesitantly put his glass next to Alfred's on the table and looked balefully at the remaining inch of bandy.

"Not at all. The house is really too small to run a government out of. People are tripping all over each other trying to get their work done." Alfred pursed his lips, wondering if he should share his next thought. "And there is always someone looking for me: Wanting to persuade me, or get my opinion, or have me do something for them." He gusted a breath up at his cowlick, making it bob around. "I haven't been hunting or even gone for a walk in the woods for almost a year."

England gave Alfred an almost affectionate look. "It is so very ironic. How we nations loose our personal freedoms even as our people gain their own."

"I hadn't expected that," he admitted rubbing his temple as if chasing away a headache. "Not that I regret anything," he was quick to add.

"Quite," England agreed. "Since you cannot run wild across the countryside any longer, what do you do instead?"

America looked at him blankly.

"Oh you know," England prompted, "what do you do for yourself? Do you read out outrageous novels? Haunt the taverns? Spend afternoons deep in prayer?" That last one had a flavor of sarcasm.

"Well..." America frowned. "I do read, but its all recommended by my bosses. Books on philosophy, history, judicial writings. They want me to understand what they are building." He winced. "It's boring." The wince merged into a guilty frown. "But it is really important – the foundation of our ideals and all."

"You do nothing just for yourself personally?" England took back his glass and finished off the brandy.

A deep sigh proceeded any words. "Not really, there is so much to do, so much the people need from me. Maybe in a few years things will settle down and I can spend some time in the countryside again." The moving shadows of the firelight cast dark circles under Alfred's eyes instantly aging him.

"Alfred."

America's eyes widened. It was the first time England had used his name in years.

"Lad, I beg your pardon if it is still too soon for me to presume to give you advice. Don't make the mistake of loosing yourself to your government. It is not who YOU are. Find time to be just Alfred."

America shook his head. "I don't see how I can find the time to do the things I want to do. My leaders won't let me leave them for long, not when we have so much to accomplish."

England leaned forward. "You are civilized now and can no longer wander away for months at a time, true. You need to find something else you enjoy. Something portable if possible. Whatever it is, it is important that you find it and make time for it. Otherwise you will loose perspective. When you loose yourself, you will make dreadful decisions. Your people will suffer."

Alfred looked closely at England's face. "Are you speaking from experience?"

"Regrettably so." England's empty glass clattered as he placed it on the table. "Trust me, there will always be too much to do – your work will never be complete, no matter that you will live forever. You must make sure to keep an identity distinct from what you represent. Having an interest is a place to begin."

"So what is it that you do then?" America asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I think you can already answer that question if you can think back a bit. I dare say you have seen more of my private life than most."

"I thought you just implied reading boring old books didn't count!" Alfred cast a jaundiced gaze to the bookshelves framing the fireplace.

"Well, as opposed to you, I actually enjoy it," England conceded, a hand coming up to unpin the broach at his neck. He laid it by his glass while his other hand loosened his cravat. "Surely you can think of some thing else?"

Alfred pretended to think. He didn't need to try very hard as his memories of happier times with England blazed brightly within him, liberated by the knowledge that England had not incinerated them along with their home. "Let's see. You like to grow roses, and you always had some kind of needle work going."

"Correct. I still enjoy those activities. However, working in the garden only suits certain seasons and locations, while I can take my needle work anywhere. Portable, you see."

America nodded politely, but he just couldn't see himself sewing.

"So are you inspired to think of any pursuits for yourself?"

"I don't know, all the things I like to do are too messy or dangerous." America's brows drew together as he thought back on the stern lecture Washington had given him when he had shown up at a Congressional session after working at a local farm for a morning. The horse shit on his shoes and the dirt in the beds of his finger nails had not been appreciated.

"Some things never change, do they?" England asked with sincere fondness.

They looked at each other, both open and vulnerable. Their past pressed close about them in an intertwining of happiness and despair, forming into a platform of possibilities for moving forward.

"Thank goodness," Alfred said shyly, scratching his head. He allowed his hopes for their relationship to show on his face, laid bare with no protective masks. "Arthur."

England's face softened. He leaned over the table and lifted a hand towards Alfred's face as if to stroke his cheek.

Alfred found himself moving forward to receive that caress.

Three sharp raps on the door had them jumping apart self consciously.

Thomas entered the library with his typical cool efficiency. "Mr. Jones' carriage is waiting." Announcement delivered, he turned and left. The open door a reminder that the visit was over.

"Well," England said briskly looking at a clock on the mantel. "It is time for you to be on your way. You must have much to do before you set sail tomorrow."

"Yes," America agreed with a flush. "It is a long journey." He was off balance and uncentered. One second they were talking and remembering, and the next he was leaving, with no transition in between.

"One I have made many a time." England slid to the edge of his couch and laid a soft hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Safe travels."

The hand was a warm comfort on America's skin. A touch at last. "Arthur?"

"Yes, my boy?"

Alfred didn't want to go. Not when they had just started to really talk, to heal the wounds they had inflicted upon each other. He wanted to stay. It was impossible to foresee if and when he would ever make the long journey back. Without serious political business there would be no reason for either of them to travel to each other's shores. "Is it really so late?" he asked weakly, unable to voice his thoughts.

The wistfulness in Arthur's face showed he understood exactly. "I'm afraid so." England squeezed his shoulder once and released it. He eyed Alfred's still full glass on the table.

"May I write to you?" At least that way they could keep this new conversation going.

"Of course." England picked up Alfred's glass and took a long drink from it. "I fully expect reports on America's progress in the New World as well as Alfred Kirkland's personal affairs."

"Good." Alfred didn't have the heart to remind him that his last name was now Jones. He rose and eased around the table between the couches, taking a step towards the door. When Arthur didn't rise, Alfred paused and peered back over his shoulder. "Will you see me off?"

England's face looked pained before it closed off into the same neutral expression he had worn at the start of the evening. He finished off Alfred's drink and clenched the empty glass. "I believe I will keep my old bones up here by the fire. Thomas can see you to your carriage better than I. You can find your way?"

Alfred nodded, his chest tightening. Tonight had gone almost too well and the parting was hurting them both. England was right, it was best to not linger over it. "Farewell."

England jerked his head towards the door and gestured for him to go with a flick of his fingertips.

Alfred hurried into the hall, hearing England pouring himself a drink behind him. It sounded terribly lonely.

The other side of independence was illuminated in that moment: Independence was being left behind. Independence was going on alone.

It was a farewell without the guarantee of reunion.

Alfred paused at the stairwell and looked up into the dark hall above him. He would bear it and keep moving forward to create his future. However, England was a fixed star he would use to keep his bearings and navigate back to the best parts of his past.

For now, it was time to move on.

The End

**Notes:**

This last chapter was a bear to write. I wanted to end on a positive note because while the Jay's Treaty was in effect the two nations had a good relationship. It was difficult to transition to this from the angsty argument over dinner. I'm still not thrilled with it but I have done my best.

I had so much fun writing this. I learned/remembered tons about early American history by doing the research. The best learning was about the rhotic aspect of American speech – I had no idea. I went on to research more about American English and its divergence from British English and it is all quite fascinating. In many ways American English is a time capsule- many of what feel like uniquely American turns of phrases are really antique British phrases that are not often used any more across the pond. For example – American use "Fall" as a term for Autumn. The colonists brought this term with them. It was a shortened version of "Fall of the leaf" from 16th century middle English. This ultimately fell out if vogue in Britain and Autumn was used instead.

I also got completely obsessed with the development of public and private gas lightening. I even made a pathetic attempt to work it in to the story, but ultimately removed the scene because it did zero to move the story forward and lead to trying to have Alfred say something complimentary about England's embroidery which was lame and destroyed the mood I was building. So out it went. For fun, I will put the scene below, just like an out take section on a DVD. Be warned, it was taken out for a reason and is unedited.

Thanks to everyone for reading and for the great comments. I adore hearing from my readers and find you kind words inspirational. Thanks to the other creators of US/UK content as well. You are all so talented and I am humbled to stand among your ranks. Ours is a vibrant and productive community thanks to your efforts!

**The Whiskey Rebellion-** From Wikipedia: A new U.S. federal government began operating in 1789, following the ratification of the United States Constitution. The previous government under the Articles of Confederation had been unable to levy taxes; it had borrowed money to meet expenses, accumulating $54 million in debt. The states had amassed an additional $25 million in debt. Alexander Hamilton, the first Secretary of the Treasury, sought to use this debt to create a financial system that would promote American prosperity and national unity. In his Report on Public Credit, he urged Congress to consolidate the state and national debts into a single debt that would be funded by the federal government. Congress approved these measures in June and July of 1790.

A source of government revenue was needed to pay the bond holders to whom the debt was owed. By December 1790, Hamilton believed that import duties, which were the government's primary source of revenue, had been raised as high as was feasible. He therefore promoted passage of an excise tax on domestically distilled spirits. This was to be the first tax levied by the national government on a domestic product. Although taxes were politically unpopular, Hamilton believed that the whiskey excise was a luxury tax that would be the least objectionable tax that the government could levy.] In this he had the support of some social reformers, who hoped that a "sin tax" would raise public awareness about the harmful effects of alcohol] The whiskey excise act, sometimes known as the "Whisky Act", became law in March 1791.

**Deleted Scene:**

"The Super Amazing Gas Lamp"

England leaned forward. "You make need to find something new to enjoy. Something portable. Whatever it is, it is important that you find it and make time for it. Otherwise you will not be true to yourself, and you will loose perspective."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Regrettably so."

"So what is it that you do?"

"I think you can already answer that question as you have observed me going about many of my hobbies."

"I thought you just implied reading dusty, boring old books didn't count!"

"Well, as opposed to you, I actually enjoy it."

"Let's see. You like to garden, and you always had a needle work going."

"Correct. I still enjoy those activities. Working in the garden only suits certain seasons and locations, while I can take my needle work anywhere. Portable, you see. Also, don't forget I often cook for leisure. You've enjoyed many a pastry from me."

America's mouth dried out as he remembered his diet of charred scones. "I sure did." He quickly changed the subject. "Are you knitting something right now?"

"No, I am embroidering a handkerchief. What you like to see it?" England was already rising and moving towards the back of the little library.

America got up and followed him to one of the rare section of wells not covered in books and watched as England turned a key on a wall sconce and a bright flame burst into light.

Below the light was a plush arm chair. England reached into it's seat and gathered up a length of white fabric stretched over a small hoop. "You see, it is an early Tudor Rose design." He held it up for Alfred to inspect.

"What is that?" America breathed looking at the amazingly bright light. "It's wonderful."

"It is called a gas light. One of my people is developing them for use to light the city. It will be several years, before it is ready."

"It's in your house," America breathed. "Its so steady. So bright."

"I only have the one. A perk of being who I am, I suppose. It is very nice for embroidering or reading. It is very easy on the eyes."

"Its in your house!" America repeated excitedly. "How does it work?"

England tapped the wall behind the sconce. " I have a reservoir of coal gas that is fed to this lamp by a system of pipes in the walls."

"That is amazing!" Alfred beamed. "I almost can't believe it. Thank you for showing me."

"You are welcome. Now, did you say you wanted to see my embroidery?" England held the hoop up to the light again.

Remembering his manners Alfred peered at the fabric with as much interest as he could muster. "That looks nice. I like how the thorns stick up a little."

"Yes it is a special kind of knotted stitch that makes it look that way." England sat the fabric back down on the chair. "So are you inspired to think of any pursuits for yourself?"

America tugged on the lapels of his jacket. "I don't know, all the things I like to do are too messy or dangerous." He winced thinking back on the stern lecture Washington had given him when he had shown up at a congressional session with muddy boots and dirt in the beds of his finger nails.

"Some things never change, do they?" England asked.


End file.
